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epitome of incomprehensibility
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I don't remember wanting to marry Timmy when I was three and four, but apparently that was a thing I said before the boy's family packed up and moved to Narnia (actually Sarnia).
I kissed Christian on the cheek in kindergarten. His name was pronounced like a mix of English and French: Chris-tee-anh ("nh" standing for a nasal vowel). Maybe it was Haitian Creole from his dad's side; I'm not sure. Anyway, we were sitting cross-legged in a circle for gym class, and his round, soft cheek next to me looked kissable. I kissed it. As I remember, he barely reacted - no "ew, gross," but no blushes or expressions of affection.
In first grade, my six-year-old self was in love with the French teacher. In particular, I was fascinated by her ass, or at least my idea of it. She often wore skirts with tights, and at one point I caught a glimpse of what I thought was her butt crack - probably a seam in the tights along the back. For a while, I kept trying to crawl up to her to look under her skirt, but I never succeeded.
Why was I so perverted in this matter and why does it make me laugh now? Of course it was bad behaviour, even for a six-year-old towards a (maybe) sixty-year-old. Plus, I remember the weirdest things.
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